


The Ghast And Unwanted

by sa_mu_uu



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tokyo Ghoul, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4903114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa_mu_uu/pseuds/sa_mu_uu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love story between an ex-hunter and an ex-monster. Tokyo Ghoul AU, ZoSan. Written for the OP Reverse Bang 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghast And Unwanted

**Author's Note:**

> While this is a One Piece fic set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, no previous knowledge of TG should be necessary to understand the story; every relevant piece of information is explained, so no worries! Please sit back, relax, and enjoy. C:

Lunch time.

It's two hours into his shift at the Baratie, and Sanji isn't at all repulsed by the scent of the human food he's preparing. Despite having not eaten a shred of human meat in his twenty-one years of life, his desire to be preparing a meal of gore has been as nonexistent as ever. He can safely say with absolute certainty that he is focusing flawlessly on the task at hand.

Or rather, he  _would_  be, were it not for the utter chaos that plagued his kitchen.

"For fuck's sake, Carne, where the hell is the squid?" he calls over sizzling pans and husky chatter, hastily garnishing another half-dozen completed dishes on the counter in front of him.

"That's not my job, brat, ask Ace for it!"

"It's barely eleven. He's asleep, moron." He resists the urge to roll his eyes, if only so he can keep his gaze on the half-finished dishes lining the counter. Really, how many years has Carne been working there? He should know damn well that Ace never gets up before noon. Not in a million goddamn years. "Just go downstairs and get it yourself, already. Quit wasting time."

Carne just gives him a jeer from across the room in response—Sanji has experienced it enough times to know the feeling of those eyes on his back without actually seeing it—but the sound of heavy boots descending the stairs to the basement signals that his order is being fulfilled. The leisurely pace of it is almost enough to make Sanji scold him again, but doing so would likely just slow the process down even more, so he keeps his mouth shut.

With an exhausted sigh out through his nose, he lifts his eyes from the human food in front of him to admire his work. Looks goods, he has to admit. Fit for serving at the Baratie; and that's saying something. Letting the twinge of relief in his chest settle for no longer than a second or two, he glances over his shoulder to examine the rest of the room. Everything seems to be in order, at least as much as he can hope for. But as his eyes fall on the kitchen line, he lets out a groan; the drinks he'd finished too many minutes ago are sitting on the counter, undelivered and getting warmer by the second.

"Oh, just great," he mutters under his breath, swiping the tray of glasses from the line and balancing it on one hand to take out himself. There's no point in asking someone else to do it; the waiters would have gotten to it already if they'd had the chance. It's fine. Though he complains about their dysfunctional kitchen nigh constantly, he's entirely used to it at this point. Just another minor task to add to the pileup. The aching in each one his joints and the dull burn inside every crevice of his head is customary at this point. It's alright. There's no rest for someone like him.

Storming through the heat haze of spices and sea salt, Sanji sidesteps around the cooks to reach the door to the main floor. His ears are mostly deaf to the insults and badgering that erupt in his wake as he leaves; it's just meaningless banter, but hell if it isn't loud as shit. He can practically feel his headache diminishing as the door swings shut and the sound muffles behind him. The dining room, on the other hand, is as peaceful as it always is. It isn't silent, the customers filling the tables make sure of that, but it has a satisfying sort of atmosphere that Sanji finds a rare comfort in.

Balancing the tray of drinks at head-height, he makes his way over to the table written on the order tab. Table twenty, over by the windows that face the street. There are four humans seated there; two middle-aged women, a elementary school-aged boy, and a little girl no older than five. Sanji approaches them with a warm smile, ignoring the strain on his cheeks as he did so.

"Two manhattans, an arctic punch for the sir, and a cherry juice for the young lady," he says, serving them with a delicate hand.

"My, what a gentleman," one of the older women smiles, grasping the glass with two jewelry-adorned hands. "Thank you very much, monsieur."

"Think nothing of it," he replies quietly, somewhere between a polite statement and a mutter.

"Eugh, this is way too sweet..."

Sanji raises the eyebrow that's hidden behind his hair, and glances down at the boy who's idly fidgeting with his straw.

"Maxie, don't be rude," one of the women starts with a frown. "You ordered it, so just be quiet and drink it."

"What? I didn't order it, you did it  _for_  me!"

Ah, so that's it. Well, he can fix that without much trouble. "I'm terribly sorry about that. If you don't mind waiting another minute, I can whip up something more suited to your tastes," Sanji says, leaning to take the drink with an inquisitive look toward the kid.

The child simply stares at him for a moment in surprise before nodding, if not a little reluctantly, before quickly averting his gaze to the window. Sanji's fingers wrap around the glass, and he sets it carefully back on the tray, giving the group one last forced smile before turning to head back to the kitchen.

Too sweet, huh? It's a surprising complaint coming from a kid his age, but nothing Sanji can't handle. He'd just have to make something with a more mature taste; something with lime, perhaps. Or maybe a nice tea. He'll have to check what the boy ordered to see what would go well with his food.

As for the drink he's carrying back, Sanji will simply finish it off himself; it's close enough to lunch time that he's starting to get thirsty anyway. And he can digest human food just fine—despite what Zeff might have him believe sometimes—so he won't let it go to waste. A few of the cooks might taunt him for feeding off of leftovers again, but he would just cold-shoulder them as usual. Or Zeff would kick their shit in. Whatever. It wasn't like-

Out of nowhere, a rough slam against his shoulder knocks Sanji clear on his ass, and the ear-splitting smash of glass shattering on the wooden floor beside him throws him straight out of his thoughts.

The first thing he notices, upon tearing his eyes away from the pool of ruined blue raspberry punch and ice on the floor, is that there's a man down on the floor with him. He's covered from head— _mossy green_ head—to toe with the spilled drink. His tattered shirt, that had been gray until moments ago, is unevenly soaked in blue; it'll be unsalvageable from a stain like that. Every instinct in Sanji's mind is telling him to apologize until he's that same shade of blue in the face, to ask the human—no,  _customer_ —if he's hurt, if there's anything he can do, but for some reason he doesn't.

Sanji stares deep into the man's narrowed eyes, searching his face as the other stares back from his spot sprawled on the floor. He opens his mouth for a split second, then closes it, too dumbfounded to say anything proper; but then the strangest thing happens.

He cracks.

"What exactly..." Sanji mutters, his feet twitching slightly, practically begging to knock this guy's stupid look right off his face. "...is your FUCKING problem, you blundering piece of shit?!"

The man's eyes widen for a split second, and he sits up defensively with his dark, angular brows practically furrowing into a single entity. "The hell are you talking about?! You're the one who spilled this sticky crap all over me!"

"Only because you weren't watching where the fuck you were going!" Around him, every conversation in the restaurant starts to fade out. He can feel human eyes all over him. But it's as if some invisible hand has turned on the rusted faucet for his pent-up rage, and he can't reach the knob to turn it back off. "Damn it, your obliviousness wasted a perfectly good drink!"

"Oh, really?" the man replies with a glare, visibly tightening his jaw. "You know, the way I see it, you're the one who was being oblivious."

"Are you trying to say this is my fault?" Sanji snarls back, slowly standing to his feet as the customer does the same.

"Are  _you_  trying to say I'm wrong, curly-brow?"

The moment Sanji registers the words that salty baritone voice had spoken, his feet aren't planted on the ground anymore.

The blade of his foot connects with the man's chest—though it feels like he's kicking a wall of iron—and he pivots and bends backward to avoid a punch to the nose. "Fucking say that again, moss-head, I dare you!"

"Moss-head?!" This seems to stagger the man for a moment, like he's somehow never heard that one before; but he recovers quickly and lunges for Sanji again with renewed vigor. "Fuck you, it's not moss!"

"Oh, who gives— _agh_!" The fist connects just below Sanji's visible eye, and he stumbles back, bumping the back of his thighs on one of the occupied tables near the bar. The rattling of the table settings is enough to bring him back to his senses for a moment, but the two hands curling into his lapels and pulling him forward make him see red again in an instant.

"W-wait, Zoro, stop!"

Literally butting heads, neither of them move from their forehead-to-forehead deadlock. Sanji is too close to the idiot—his name is Zoro?—to get a good look at the person behind him, but the look in the moss-head's eyes makes Sanji doubt that he's in the mood to comply with the voice anyway.

Zoro must feel him move for the leg sweep he goes for next; because the moment he tries, Sanji finds himself kicking at nothing. The floorboards quake where Zoro's foot slams down off to the side, and he promptly drops into a wider stance, nearly throwing Sanji by his blazer to the floor in the process. But Sanji is agile enough avoid the impact, using the momentum to swing his legs up around Zoro's neck and throw himself onto the man's shoulders. He'll choke the life out of this fucker with his damn thighs if he has to.

"What's all the damn racket out here?!"

 _Oh, shit._  Sanji swallows thickly, and struggles to pry himself out of Zoro's newly-established death grip on his legs. But even as he drops back to the ground and hastily shoves Zoro away, he knows it's too late; he's already well since been spotted.

"Little eggplant," Zeff begins sternly, and Sanji can hear the  _click-clack_  of his peg leg tapping the floor as he crosses the dining room. "The hell're you doing in the dining room?"

"I was just—"

"It was a rhetorical question. My eyes still work just fine. Really, I turn my back for five damn minutes, and you nearly murder a customer." His tone is as dry as ever, but Sanji knows the hint exasperation in the geezer's expression when he sees it.

"Murder? Not even close," Zoro grumbles. Zeff makes a unimpressed sort of sound under his breath, tossing a clean black towel to him that Sanji recognizes as being one from their home upstairs. It's one of the newer ones they have, made of luxury cotton; they'd splurged on a few with some of their extra funds a couple of months back. But Zoro doesn't even pause to appreciate the feel of it in his hands before burying his dripping-wet face in it. Sanji cringes a little when he starts rubbing the hell out of his hair; with the elbow-grease he's putting into it, Sanji will be pulling little strands of green out of the damn thing for weeks.

"I take it you're both uninjured, then?" Zeff speaks up again, looking between them with his chin tilted down a bit, giving them that over-the-glasses look despite the fact that his glasses are almost definitely sitting on the coffee table upstairs and clearly not on his face.

"Perfectly fine," Sanji responds curtly, ignoring the stinging sensation on his cheekbone.

Another customer approaches Zoro's side as he drapes the towel over his shoulders. "C-come on, we left our money for lunch, let's just get out of their way and get back to work."

"Keep your money," Zeff says. When the two look at him strangely, he adds, "Save it and come back another time, alright? Just bring that towel back clean when you do."

Come back? Surely he must be fucking joking; the look on that Zoro-guy's face seems like he'd rather bite his own tongue off than do that.

"Uh, sorry, yeah, o-of course!" the long-nosed one rambles, dragging Zoro by his stained collar toward the exit. "I'm really sorry about this moron! I'll keep a better eye on him, uh, next time!" His frantic apologies continue until the door swings shut behind them, and Sanji watches on in bewilderment as the guy pushes Zoro by his shoulders past the windows and out of sight. Even though he can't see them anymore, he can hear arguing outside of the restaurant well afterward. As Zeff tugs him by the collar back toward the kitchen, the dining room murmurs slowly breed back to a chattering miasma, the last few minutes hit him like a slow-moving truck.

_What the hell just happened?_

Heat rushes to his cheeks as he throws himself back into his work; his tunnel vision kicks in, and he channels every ounce of his leftover irritation into prepping the kitchen for the dinner menu.

The rhythmic tapping of his knife on the cutting board eases his nerves almost enough to stop the shaking in his fingers.

x-x-x

Three hours and twice as many cigarettes later, Sanji remembers how to breathe. Ace had come up from the basement and tried to approach him at some point along the line, but Sanji had sent him off to catch fish on the lower deck before he had the chance to say anything. He couldn't deal with Ace's antics with his nerves so on edge; but after he'd managed to calm down, part of him wanted to get some fresh air as well. That said, working another few hours to finish his shift without stopping required less effort. Would he ever resist falling victim to entropy? Probably not. Did it matter? The customers enjoying his food and the cooks whose slack he's picking up would probably say no; it just so happens that his "off mode" involves being useful to them. Isn't that the best for everyone, then? Even so, the weather outside seemed nice...

The only thing that manages to drag him out of his inner dispute is Zeff's garlic and salt-covered hand giving his shoulder a firm squeeze.

"Snap out of it," the old man says. "You're staring off into space like a moron."

Sanji blinks, realizing that he was in fact glaring a hole into the wall instead of the dishes in front of him, and grimaces. Taking a deep breath in, he lets the simmering scent of cinnamon and bay leaves settle before replying, "Yeah, my bad. Can you hand me the next order slip?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, eggplant, but I'm pretty sure your lunch break was supposed to be hours ago."

A glance up at the clock by the sink told him that, while that was true, the early dinner rush would be starting any minute; hardly the best time for a break. "It's kind of late for that now, don't you think?" he asks, looking over to Zeff with a puzzled frown.

Sautéing a batch of onions beside him, Zeff hands don't skip a beat in the slightest as he looks up to meet Sanji's eye. "No, I don't 'think'. Better late than never, kid."

"That shit doesn't exactly apply when I'm needed here." Sanji replies, not at all convinced.

"'Needed'? Well, aren't you full of yourself," Zeff snorts indignantly, jerking his thumb toward the back door. "Just go. Consider it a favor to me if you have to, but you need to get some rest. Wouldn't want you to lash out again like earlier, would we?"

"That was a fluke, and entirely not my damn fault," Sanji mutters, but he steps back from his workstation and grabs a towel to wipe his hands clean. He knows when he's beat; and a break does sound good, no matter how he spins it. Grabbing a plate of miso-marinated salmon that had been sent back to the kitchen not too long ago, he fills a glass with tap water and turns back to Zeff with a dull look, sarcastically raising an eyebrow as he waits for approval.

Zeff seems content enough, and turns back to his work with an almost imperceptible nod. "Don't forget your medicine too, alright?"

"...Sure," Sanji says, but it's missing the usual drawl in his tone. His eyes slide over to the little glass vials and syringe needles; they're in a little black box on the counter near the stairs, where they always are. He sets the syringe down carefully on the edge of his plate, willing it not to roll into the food as he walks out to the back deck for some peace and quiet.

The outside air is so clean it's almost jarring, but it's refreshing in ways Sanji can appreciate every once in awhile. The sea breeze ruffles his hair as he wanders over to one of the vacant tables, and he barely has his lunch set down before his hands reflexively fix his bangs back over his eye; not that it matters—it really doesn't—because nobody else comes out to the back deck anymore but him. It's been closed for renovations for over a year now, but he's starting to doubt they will ever find the time to actually revitalize the place.

It's a shame, though, because the view from back there would be worth the visit alone to most people even if their food wasn't as outstanding as it is. The entire harbor is within sight from any of the tables on the back deck, and there's always something worth watching out there. That said, Sanji prefers the one in the corner nearest the docks; as if that weren't painfully obvious because of the pile of cigarette stubs on the balustrade next to it. He's taken to that corner for as long as he could remember—and, if he were being honest, it's nice to know that there won't be customers using that table whenever he gets around to going on his breaks.

He takes a few bites of the salmon and washes it down with some water. It's not bad at all; tastes like one of Patty's creations. There's a little bit too much rice wine, but that's his only real complaint. Not that he'd ever let the man know that.

As he slowly works his way through the meal, his attention slips over to the medicine. Something in the back of his mind makes him scowl, and he pokes at it with his fork, watching as the syringe slides down the raised rim of his plate. The blue liquid inside is just translucent enough to see the delicate linework on the porcelain behind it; it looks so harmless sitting there next to the other substances getting forced into his body. But there's a key difference between them; one is meant to make him human, while the other is merely a consequence of the first.

What's the point? He's human enough, isn't he? Ghouls are supposed to be physically unparalleled man-eaters, aren't they? But the way he is now is nothing like what he's heard monsters like him are supposed to be. He's pretty fucking certain his skin can't shatter knives on impact, and he isn't going to be jumping over buildings any time soon.

But more than anything else, he can eat a dish made for humans without vomiting the moment he swallows. Hell, it even tastes good to him every now and then. So why would he need to hurt anyone? The answer's simple; he doesn't. He's no danger to anyone but himself.

Shit, he needs to smoke.

He lights up the third to last cigarette in his pack with tense hands, prying his eyes away from the syringe; the ocean provides a much better view. The water is so calm it looks like a flat sheet of glass, reflecting back the strung yellow lights that lined the docks all the way across. With the evening getting closer, the water has turned from sky blue to a cobalt gray, casting a shade on all of the boats that littered the docks. Sanji takes in a deep breath, letting the smoke fill up his chest before breathing it out in a thin stream.

The calm that settles over him could have sent him straight to sleep, had it not been for the nasally shouting that catches his attention.

"Zoro, that's the wrong boat!"

Sanji raises an eyebrow, glancing over in the direction that the voice had come from. On one of the docks near the restaurant, he spots a familiar face; the apologetic customer from earlier is carrying a load of cardboard boxes onto a small fishing vessel. He has his hair pulled back into a messy bun, and he looks like he has more sweat than skin on him, but his nose makes him easily recognizable as the same man from earlier. He's facing the other direction, but Sanji tries to follow his line of sight to see what he's looking at.

"How can your sense of direction possibly be that bad?!"

A few lines away, Sanji catches sight of a man looking back and forth between the long-nosed guy and the boat he's currently standing on with boxes by his feet. Sanji can tell instantly that the man is Zoro; the bandana that had been tied around his absurdly toned bicep has made its way up to his mossy head, but the hint of green peeking out from underneath is still noticeable even from a distance. His shirt had been discarded at some point as well, but even without the sugary pool of blue on his chest, the figure that had been all up in Sanji's face hours earlier is unmistakable.

"All you have to do is follow me, it's not that hard!" the other man calls to him again, and Zoro responds with something irritated that Sanji can't make out. Still, he lifts the boxes from the floor of the boat, and climbs back onto the deck; but the moment he does, the door to the boat's cabin swings open and an elderly man with a broom starts yelling at him to "get the hell off his boat," and "leave other people's property alone, damn hooligan!" or something similar. The broom connects with Zoro's back at least twice before he gets onto the deck and out of the man's range entirely. He has this ridiculously baffled expression on his face, and nearly trips over his own feet as he runs to the beginning of the pier and glances over his shoulder to make sure he isn't being followed.

Sanji can't help it; the resonant laugh that escapes his lips at the sight is entirely out of his control. He cuts it off quickly, the back of his hand covering his mouth to hide the smile he couldn't manage to erase, but he's certain the entire harbor had heard it. The idiot's head whips around to face him, and there's a second where Sanji has no idea what to do with the sudden eye contact. But after Zoro stares at him for a moment with a familiar wide-eyed look, he turns away with what might be a scowl—it's difficult to tell from a distance—and makes his way back his co-worker on the correct ship. No words were exchanged, but Sanji feels a slight hint of victory anyway.

"Yo, Sanji! Is that you up there?"

Sanji blinks, peering down beside him; in the thin space between floorboards, he can see that Ace is on the lower deck underneath him. "Yeah, it is," he replies, slightly embarrassed that one of his co-workers had been around to catch his outburst. Not that Ace was any stranger to laughing, but still.

"So, what was so funny?" Ace calls up to him again, the smile on his face evident in his voice. "You thinkin' about replacing my pillow with tin foil again?"

He really won't let that go, will he? How many years ago was that? "No, nothing like that," Sanji says, stealing a glance back over at the boat with the two customers on-board. "Just… something weird."

"Okay, whatever you say." Ace chuckles again to himself, and Sanji can hear the sound of him casting the fishing line back into the water over near the opposite corner of the deck.

Falling back into comfortable silence, Sanji takes the last bite of salmon on his plate and chews slowly, savoring the flavor that was anything but nauseating. The medicine has made its way to the middle of the plate, as if it's just waiting to be consumed next. He unhurriedly picks the syringe up between two fingers, with his thumb resting on the plunger, and extends his arm out to rest on the balustrade. He studies the serum from that distance for a long moment, then squeezes the concoction out into the ocean below.

He's human enough.

x-x-x

The next afternoon, Sanji finds himself watching the docks out of the kitchen window.

Zoro and the long-nosed guy had started their day at sunrise, just like he had. At first, he had wondered if the boat they'd spent all day on belonged to either of them, but after watching them for a while, he's coming to realize that they must be laborers. He's never seen anyone work so hard or so swiftly on any of the boats out there before; the two of them seem awfully handy with tools as well. Sanji is certain there's money involved. It'd be a waste of skill if there wasn't.

Just how long have those two been around? Now that he's encountered them once, it seems impossible not to notice them.

"A human?" Ace says, appearing at his side with a wide smile. "Really? Wow."

Sanji nearly jumps out of his skin, having not noticed Ace coming up beside him, but he contains himself quickly. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he grumbles in response, rolling his cigarette between tightly clenched teeth as he goes back to his task of preparing the soup for tomorrow's lunch menu.

"The green guy, obviously. I've never seen him around," Ace continues, idly scrubbing down one of the stoves that isn't in use. "Is he new in town?"

"I don't know." The words come out a bit sharper than he intended, but Ace has never been one to be bothered by tone anyway.

"Wow, touchy," Ace raises an eyebrow, but his cheeky expression doesn't fade. "Sorry, I didn't realize he was such a big problem."

"He isn't. You're imagining things."

"Am I?" He tilts his head to the side puzzledly, and there's a short pause as his scrubbing slows and he turns to Sanji again. "He's not the one that I heard about you getting in a fight with, is he? The customer from yesterday?"

Sanji elects not to say anything, only letting out a quiet, smoky sigh. Gods, Ace's intuition can be irritating sometimes.

"Holy shit, Sanji, what the hell? I know he's human, but that guy looks like he could punch a hole through a brick wall! What were you thinking?!" He sounds an odd mixture of concerned and entertained, but Sanji knows that's about as close to scolding as he could ever expect the man to sound.

"...He wasn't that tough." That was a lie, sort of, but nobody needs to know that.

Ace could only laugh at that, either because he really believes it or he really doesn't, Sanji isn't sure which. He seems satisfied enough with that—at least for the moment—and they continue working for a while with only the sound of energized cooking and gruff chatter around them to fill the space in conversation. It isn't long before the stove is like brand new, and Ace stands back to admire his work.

"Looks good," Sanji comments, and it's true. Despite not being gifted with a talent for human cooking, Ace really is a great asset to the restaurant.

"Yup. Guess it's break time," Ace nods in contented agreement, and wipes off his hands, storing away the cleaning supplies in the closet near the stairs. He stretches his arms up over his head, letting out a loud yawn that Sanji finds obnoxiously contagious, then spins on his heels to give Sanji one last look as he heads for the basement. "...Oh, by the way, Marco's stopping by with a shipment of meat in six hours. Make sure the old man knows, alright? I'm going down to organize the storeroom."

Right, "organize the storeroom"; that's code for "taking a nap", but Sanji gives him a languid thumbs-up anyway. Ace would almost surely sleep the day away, but the storeroom will end up organized, just like he said. Ace works in mysterious ways; he's just learned to accept it.

But another shipment from Marco was the best news he's heard all day. Quite a few workers on the Baratie staff will be thankful for that; their supply is running low, after all. Zeff only allows clean, voluntarily-donated flesh to be kept in his restaurant, and Whitebeard is just about the only man around with the sway and connections to make that feasible. He seems like a good guy, as far as Sanji can tell from a degree of separation. If nothing else, the man is helping keep a lot of people alive whom Sanji holds very dearly; and for that, they owe him a lot. Even if Sanji himself doesn't benefit from it directly, he's glad to have the man on their side.

So long as his co-workers don't go hungry, he'll be happy. As he stirs the soup, he uses his free hand to write a quick note to leave at Zeff's workstation on the off chance that they don't see each other;  _"Marco at 8 tonight. Make freezer space."_

x-x-x

As the day goes on, Sanji's vexation toward the moss-head grows. For some reason, Zoro hasn't eaten yet.

He could understand the man avoiding just the Baratie, sure; but working six hours without stopping for any food at all is criminal for a human. Sanji's kind can handle it, but Zoro's can't. Even the long-nosed one had stopped twice throughout the day to rest and fucking eat something. Apparently Zoro thought himself too good for that—what a goddamn idiot.

And it wasn't as if Sanji had simply missed him taking his break. No, he'd admittedly kept an eye on the two for the whole day. And now the sun's starting to set, and Sanji can practically  _smell_  the hunger on him from a hundred yards away. Really, how hard is it to make a damn sandwich or something?

Turning his attention to the soup he'd left simmering on the stovetop for a while, Sanji only inwardly berates himself for a second before he grabs two bowls—two, because there's no way in hell he's going over there with just one, like he's doing Zoro a personal favor or anything.

He pays no mind to the cooks chiding him as he garnishes the dishes, asking him whom it's for, why he's serving up stuff that's not being sold until tomorrow; he doubts they really give a shit, they're just bugging him for the hell of it. It doesn't matter—he's out the door before they can pester him more.

The voice in the back of his head is yelling at him with every step he takes down the street toward the docks. What the hell is he doing? There's no good answer for that. But bailing out on the idea now would be a waste of perfectly good food, and he can't have that. At least, that's what he tells himself as he storms down the mossy stone stairs that lead to the pier.

There's still plenty enough sunlight blanketing the harbor that Zoro catches sight of him a few lines away. Sanji knows he's scowling—he can feel his face contorted in a strange way—but Zoro doesn't reflect the expression back at him right away. He looks surprised, confused, and a little on-edge; that makes sense.

But it's the long-nosed human who speaks up first. "Hey, it's you!" he says with an upbeat tone as Sanji makes his way across the creaky wooden planks toward their boat. "Didn't think we'd be meeting again so soon-..." The man pauses, looking a bit perplexed for a moment. "Uh, sorry, I didn't catch your name before."

"Sanji," he replies reluctantly. He really hadn't been expecting such a reasonable reception. "Just Sanji is fine."

"Oh! Well... nice to, y'know, actually meet you! My name's Usopp," the man says, and he extends his arm for a friendly handshake. Sanji has to balance a bowl in the crook of his elbow to make it work, and Usopp—apparently having not noticed the food at all before—gives him an apologetic grin for the trouble, before nudging his co-worker in the side with his foot. "You should introduce yourself too, don'tcha think?"

Zoro doesn't reply to Usopp, keeping his arms folded tightly across his chest and his eyes trained on Sanji from his seat on the floor of the boat. "What are you doing here?"

Shit, Sanji had really been hoping he wouldn't ask that. Now he has to make up something on the spot. "I'm... here to retrieve that towel we lent you," he says off the top of his head, keeping his tone even and unreadable. "And it just so happens we had some leftovers too, so I brought them along to pawn off on you two."

Zoro eyes the bowls for a second, then shifts his gaze to something out in the water. "Sorry, but I left it at home."

 _Left what at home?_  Oh, right; the towel. "It's fine, whatever, just take the food, alright?"

This makes Zoro turn back to him in mild surprise. Sanji sets the food down on one of the large, sturdy-looking boxes littering the deck before they can say anything else, taking a few steps back and shoving his hands into his pockets. When neither of them move to take it right away, he adds, "Before it gets fucking cold, if you don't mind."

They both promptly comply with varying levels of excitement between them; Zoro grabs the one closest to him and returns back to his spot on the ground a few paces away, but Usopp simply eats next to the box that Sanji had left the food on. "Oh man, this smells awesome! You're a godsend, seriously, I didn't realize how much I missed warm food until now," he rambles on, shoveling the soup into his mouth so quickly it's a wonder he has a moment to talk; yet somehow he manages. "But, now that I think about it, I really don't think I have the money to pay for this…"

"Don't worry about it," Sanji shakes his head, dismissing the idea immediately. "I'm not looking for payment."

"Really?" Usopp raises a questioning eyebrow, as if the concept of charity is entirely new to him or something. "That's… oddly refreshing, somehow."

"They're just leftovers," Sanji continues, though he's not sure why he's bothering to explain himself further. "It was either you two or the garbage, and I hate wasting food."

"You're really sure, then?" Usopp asks between spoonfuls. "I mean, we have a friend that might be able to look at that bruise for you for free in return if you want or something. He's a really great doctor."

Sanji's hand subconsciously drifts up to touch his cheekbone; he'd forgotten all about that punch. The bruise stings quite a bit, actually, but he's long since grown used to blocking out pain like that. Still, a doctor seems a bit over the top for such a minor injury, even if it does hurt.

"Yeah, it looks pretty painful," Zoro chimes in dryly, and Sanji can't for the life of him tell whether he means it as a statement or a taunt.

"You wish. It's not painful at all," he replies with as much nonchalance as he can muster, slipping his hand back into his pocket. Zoro seems to take this with a grain of salt, shrugging and turning his attention back to his food; Sanji almost doesn't catch that the man's bowl is nearly empty already.  _Good._

"Geez, that's a relief," Usopp sighs. "To be honest, you guys scared the hell out of me yesterday. And I don't scare easily at all!"

For some reason, Zoro scoffs at this—which sounds even more ridiculous with a mouthful of soup.

"What? You wanna say something, sword-boy?!" Usopp snaps angrily, but he recoils the moment Zoro shoots him a half-baked glare.

Even with their senseless bickering, Sanji actually finds that the harbor from down on the water is even more calming than he'd expected. The nearby cries of seagulls and occasional bell clanging on one ship or another create a different atmosphere altogether when he's in the middle of it all. He's plenty familiar with the scent of the sea, but it leaves a different taste in his mouth when the chill of the water is mixed in with every breath as well. With the boat rolling over the subtle waves that come along with the ocean in the evening, it really doesn't seem like a bad place to work all day.

Work. Shit, Sanji had left in the middle of his shift. "Listen… if it's all the same to you two, I should be getting back to work," he says, idly fishing a cigarette out of his pocket. At the very least, when he gets back, it will just seem like he'd been out on a smoke break.

"Is that right? Sheesh, your day must be really long," Usopp muses, visibly impressed. "Well, don't go getting in any more trouble over us."

Sanji can't help but snort under his breath; his entire existence is one big conglomeration of trouble. Adding some more to the medley wouldn't make much of a difference. "Sure. See you around." He gives them an impassive wave, and steps off of the boat, recovering smoothly from a slight stagger as his legs readjust to solid ground. Really, five minutes is all it takes to get sea legs?

"About that bruise," Zoro speaks up, and Sanji pauses mid-step to look back at him. "...Avoid getting steam on it for the next few days. And try to sleep with your head elevated if you can."

Something inside Sanji grinds to a halt, and he takes a moment process Zoro's words.

He could swear someone is stabbing him through with a burning-hot steak knife. Why?

"I'm a chef, idiot, the entire kitchen is full of steam," he says, the words spilling out of his mouth without his permission. But before he can think of anything else to say, he's heading back to the restaurant as fast as he can manage without actually running, and he's thankful that the walk is so short because he's certain that every person he passes catches sight of the undoubtedly stupid look on his face.

"Er, th-thanks for the dinner, Sanji!" Usopp calls after him, but he rounds the corner back onto the main street and consequently out of sight before he could be expected to answer.

He forgoes the dining room altogether and enters the restaurant through the back door, slamming the door shut behind him a bit more forcefully than necessary. He must have an expression that insists he be left alone—because for once, nobody yells at him for stepping out or making too much noise. He remains still for only a moment to take a final drag from his cigarette, then strides into the kitchen to make short work of the dirty dishes lining the counters.

A full rack of plates are spotless in five minutes flat, and he doesn't waste a second getting started on another. With his hands covered in lukewarm water—he avoids using steaming hot water without thinking too hard about it—and soap, it's harder to register how strangely hot his fingers feel. And as his arm muscles strain to remove the grime, he finds it easier to ignore the foreign, awkward tenseness that has suddenly overtaken his body. He can say with absolute certainty that he is focusing flawlessly on the tasks at hand. Really, he is.

Or rather, he really would be, were it not for the feeling of the tiny, rusted gears in his chest starting to grind back to life.

 

* * *

 

 

[[Link to artwork on ooonara's artblog]](http://atashiwatashi.tumblr.com/post/130222747793/entry-for-opreversebang-fic-is-the-ghast-and)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> A big shout-out to tumblr user ooonara, whose idea this whole thing was! She wanted TG ZoSan, and I was waaay more than happy to oblige. Please drop by her blog and share the love there as well, because she'll be posting some seriously beautiful art there for the story. I'd really appreciate some feedback, too! It's really hard to know what sort of questions and ideas come up from a reader's perspective, so even a little comment helps a lot.
> 
> But yeah, it's like 6AM and I can barely read what I'm typing anymore. So without further ado, see you guys next time!


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